


Bolster

by magdarko



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Fluff, Inspired, M/M, unbetaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 23:23:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magdarko/pseuds/magdarko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rodney has walked in on some pretty embarrassing things, but at the moment John can’t think of anything worse than this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bolster

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Apply When Needed](https://archiveofourown.org/works/121316) by [Cesare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cesare/pseuds/Cesare). 



> This fic was born of my abrupt, headlong, helpless love for Cesare's fic in general and, specifically, Apply When Needed, which latched on to a noisy part of my brain and didn't let go till I'd written John's POV of the fic. All dialogue is lifted verbatim from the original, (functionally) because I was doing John's POV of the same events and (really) because I have no hope of recreating the sparkling brilliance of that Rodney voice. I hope you approve of this, Cesare!
> 
> All mistakes are mine.

 

 

 

It’s mocking him.

Well, okay, it’s a pillow (it’s a really big pillow, and it’s _blue_ ) so it’s not so much mocking as just lying there looking soft and comfortable and... and squeezable, but it feels like it’s mocking him. _You’re getting old, John. Your body’s letting you down._

As little as John likes it, though, Keller’s right. It is painful, sometimes, when his usual nocturnal wriggling and squirming deposit him on his stomach and suddenly he’s awake with what feels like very small claws moving very slowly right at the core of him, and it’s.

Okay. Fine. He’ll try it.

He doesn’t have to _like_ it. He’s never had to rely on... on _things_ to make him more comfortable, not like Rodney with his hot water bottles and his pillow under his knees and his fucking prescription mattress. He had to used a knee brace, once, after that time on P4B-815, and it was _awful_. He kept feeling like Lorne was laughing at him, which he knew Lorne wasn’t, but still.

At least no one actually saw him with the pillow. John had bundled it quickly into his quarters, before Lorne or Ronon or worse, Rodney, could amble up and figure out John’s been prescribed a pillow to hug in bed.

So ofcourse Rodney walks in on him while he’s doing exactly that, curled up to a body pillow in the middle of the afternoon and trying out the heating function. As little as John wants to admit it (and he’s absolutely not going to admit it, not even to Keller, not even if she asks) it does feel nice. The support, the slow-diffusing heat, the solidness of the thing under his body—it’s comfortable.

At least, it is before Rodney walks in. Rodney’s developed a bad habit of barging unannounced into his quarters over the years, which maybe John has not discouraged as much as he should have. Rodney has walked in on some pretty embarrassing things, but at the moment John can’t think of anything worse than this.

The best defence, as any good commander will tell you, is a good offense. “What,” John says, imbuing it with as much forbidding sternness as he can. Considering he’s cuddling a giant blue pillow, it’s probably not very effective.

 _"You_ what," Rodney returns. He’s folded his arms and tipped up his chin and generally given his whole body over to disdainful superiority. "Five years you've made fun of my prescription mattress—” and it’s true, John has, because come on, a _prescription mattress_ , except now John has a prescription pillow, and fuck, he _hates_ this “—and the second we land on Earth, you go buy a body pillow. I believe I'm extremely justified in pointing and laughing with a hearty ha, and furthermore, ha."

Okay, fine, John has forfeited mocking rights for the next millennium, except— "I didn't buy a body pillow," because it _wasn’t his idea_. "I was given a therapeutic— look,” he breaks off, beyond mortified that he has to talk about this, and what he really needs is a distraction.  “Talk to Dr. Keller, she's the one who gave it to me." There. That might get Rodney started on the subject of Keller, and then he won’t be talking about John’s pillow and John’s broken body.

Rodney pulls one of his faces. “Uh, no, I don't think I will," he says. "We may have broken up on relatively good terms but that still doesn't mean we want to see each other or talk to each other anymore than we have to, yet. It's only been two weeks," he adds, unnecessarily, because it’s not like John was counting or anything. Or wondering how long it’ll be before they start missing each other, or having second thoughts about the break-up.

“Yeah, well,” he says. “It was her idea.” Please god let that shut Rodney up.

“Okay,” Rodney says. Bingo, no more arguments. Keller’s word is still good even when they’re no longer together, obviously. John tries to convince himself that the low twist in his gut is his wounds twinging.

And then Rodney says, “Why?” And, seriously, what, why does John have to deal with this today? Rodney was supposed to be in San Francisco.

“I kind of got stabbed in the gut a couple of times in the past year?” John says, a little meanly, because he wants Rodney to get off his fucking case and leave him alone with his fucking pillow which was actually helping.

Rodney raises his eyebrows, which is a move he totally picked up from John though he’ll never admit it. "So she suggested that you could shield yourself from future attacks with a big pillow?"

Ha, ha, really fucking funny, McKay. John glowers at him, and Rodney gives him his best snooty superior look until John sighs and looks away, suddenly feeling dull and tired and kind of sick of it. It’s—yes, he may have rubbed it in a bit too much about Rodney’s mattress, when he knew all along Rodney really does have a bad back, so maybe Rodney’s entitled to a little bit of honesty now. “It’s to keep me from sleeping on my stomach,” he mutters, not managing to look Rodney in the face when he says it. Yuck it up, McKay.

But Rodney doesn’t take the opening for further mocking. He says, “Oh,” his voice higher-pitched than normal, and when John looks back at him his eyes are wide and pained, and the corners of his mouth are tucked down unhappily. He bites his lip, and says jerkily, "Is it—tearing something, or hurting you...?" He’s obviously trying so hard to keep it neutral, and he’s failing so badly, and John wants nothing more than the right to cross the room and gather him up in his arms and soothe that look away from his face.

All he has instead is useless words, and it maybe makes his “no” sharper than it needs to be. Rodney doesn’t flinch, but his face pinches even more, and John sighs and forces himself to be gentler. “No, it’s just—it’s not too comfortable, is all.”

Rodney blinks miserably at him, clearly distressed, and Jesus, John has done nothing to deserve this, this isn’t fucking _fair_. Thankfully, Rodney shakes himself out of it after a moment, and rallies to say, "Well, at least now that they've shipped over a few things, you have a bigger bed to accommodate you and your new friend," though he still sounds stiff and unhappy.

Right, because _this_ was how John really wanted to fill up the space in his big, new, empty bed. “Yeah, it’s gonna be a blast,” he agrees, and wishes Rodney would just leave and let him put his face back in his pillow. He squirms irritably, shoving the stupid thing further down the bed so he won’t be tempted to do it with Rodney still in the room.

“It has a heating element, too?” Rodney says, and right, the whole genius-engineer-explorer thing means he doesn’t miss much. John reminds himself that he usually likes that. He shrugs and makes a vague hand movement in the direction of the creeping ache in his gut. “Heat’s good for the...” Wounds. Injuries. All words he doesn’t want to say, because they’ll just put that pinched look back on Rodney’s face.

Rodney snorts. “She should have just prescribed you a girlfriend,” he says—and the thing is, usually John can lob that kind of thing right back at him, but being caught by Rodney like this, and still shaken by Rodney’s badly-hidden concern—it’s all a little too much, and he can’t make the snappy retort Rodney’s waiting for. He says, “McKay,” and then grinds to a halt and drops his face into hands. The silence stretches out just a little too long and he knows he’s blown it. He stares at the pillow in lieu of letting Rodney read whatever’s on his face.

Of course, because this is John’s life, Rodney’s not only a genius but also his best friend who knows him better than everyone else he’s ever met combined, and doesn’t need a good look at his face. He can’t possibly be seeing more than John’s hair and his ears, but it’s obviously enough to give away things that John’s been scrambling to hide for over five years, because the next thing he says is, “Or a boyfriend.”

John freezes. Well, damn. And Rodney definitely doesn’t mean it as a joke, because far from being flip, the way he says it is gentle and a little hesitant, like he’s trying to say it without it hurting. John can feel the way his whole face is heating up: he doesn’t need to open his mouth to answer the implied question there. A horrible still silence settles between them, thick with all the lies John has told Rodney for years. John keeps his eyes trained on the pillow, willing himself not to move, not to look up, even as his muscles twang with tension. So much for being comfortable, he thinks bleakly.

Rodney clears his throat. Don’t say it, Rodney, please don’t say it, I can’t have this conversation hugging a giant pillow, Jesus, please...

“I could potentially help with that,” Rodney says, voice careful and neutral, and _what_?

John swallows hard; he dares to lift his gaze and actually look at Rodney, and finds Rodney looking at him, eyes wide, arms loose at his sides in a pretence at nonchalance that he clearly doesn’t feel. He’s blinking a little too much and his chin is tilted like he’s braced for a blow but his eyes are clear and his gaze is steady.

Is he...? Does he...?

John swallows again, trying to moisten his throat, and manages to say, “Yeah? How do you figure?” His voice is steady enough but his face feels tight and hot and he’s still hugging the body pillow, which is still gamely putting out heat, and he’s never been less comfortable in his life.

Rodney makes a motion at the pillow, and says, still in that careful, neutral tone, “Well. If you make a little room...” and shit, how is Rodney the cool one in this conversation?

John lies there for a moment and just looks at him, trying to figure out if... if... but the thing he keeps circling back to is that deliberate cruelty is just not Rodney’s thing, and then he flashes back to Rodney saying, "Is it—tearing something, or hurting you...?" and then he swallows again, and pushes the pillow aside to make place for... for whatever Rodney wants to do.

 _I could potentially help with that,_ he remembers, and it hits him swift and terrifying and miraculous as he watches Rodney pull off his boots and make his way over to the bed. That was a proposition, that was—that was Rodney _asking._ And when Rodney draws up to the bed and John finally scrapes up the courage to look at him, it’s like no expression he’s ever seen on Rodney’s face, soft and open and concerned. Rodney  slides down to John’s side, slotting into the space between John and the pillow, tucking his warm, broad shoulder against John’s belly, and John has to close his eyes against the sting of tears as five years of tension gush out of him at once.

Rodney hums softly, not his _oh, interesting_ hum or his _why, yes, I am smarter than you_ hum but something soft and low and gentle and new, and then puts an arm around John’s middle. He lowers his head and puts his cheek against John’s stomach, a touch filled with an aching gentleness John never dared to imagine. John swallows hard, feeling hollow and feather-light. He brushes just the tips of his fingers against Rodney’s shoulder, and Rodney makes that low, sweet humming sound again.

“It doesn’t hurt?” Rodney asks, brushing his cheek against John’s belly again. It’s soft-voiced and quiet, not tight and distressed like before, but it still makes John want to gather him up. Rodney tilts his head a little so that he can look at John without lifting his face away from John’s stomach, and a light, bright joy touches John somewhere deep and essential and warms him inside and out.

“Not anymore,” he promises, voice rough and soft, and lets himself pet gently at Rodney’s head and shoulder. Rodney’s hair is as fine and soft as it looks, and he tilts his head into John’s touch.

“What about this?” he asks, and the arm around John’s waist squeezes gently, and John can’t even remember what pain feels like. “Is this okay?” Rodney says, and John laughs, because this is more than okay, it’s more than he ever let himself dream of, and something inside him is shaking, quivering, remaking itself. “Yeah,” he says. “This is okay,” and runs the tips of his fingers through Rodney’s hair, feeling wobbly with longing and love and happiness.

“Good,” Rodney says, turning into John’s stroking hands like a cat, just soaking up all the ridiculous affection John knows is pouring out of him. Rodney tucks his shoulder more securely against John’s body, and John leans into it, into the warmth and solidity of him, curls his upper body down around them both.

 _Yes,_ he thinks helplessly. _Yes, this, perfect,_ and smiles down at Rodney, a smile that barely moves his face but feels like it lights up his whole body. Rodney quirks his mouth back at him, those unbelievably blue eyes bright with affection and happiness.

That’s John’s doing: John made him look like that.

John says, “You could stay,” and his voice is soft with the wonder of it. He watches Rodney for one breath, two; Rodney looks back, steady and certain, and John lets it settle into him until he can speak in something like his normal tone. “I even got this new pillow,” he tells Rodney, starting to grin a little.

Rodney grins back at him. “Oh, yeah?” he asks. He looks rumpled and comfortable and happy and like everything John even wanted in this world, lying smiling and contented in John’s bed.

“Yeah,” John says, and reaches out with one hand to tug the pillow in against Rodney’s back, to give him something to lean on, so that Rodney’s wrapped up in warmth, John on one side and the pillow on the other. “It’s pretty nice.”

 

  
_fin_

**Author's Note:**

> It also turns out that this is my first McKay/Sheppard fic. I don't know quite how that happened...


End file.
